"A drunken idea," said Ah Cum, taking his hands out of his sleeves. She made a few protests, a few excuses for her action in accepting him, a few lame explanations, but he did not heed them or care for them. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. “We are only in the dawn of the Age of Friendship,” he said, “when interest, I suppose, will take the place of passions. Lots of us are like that. Play foul, and win.
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